The Cavendon Luck

  He stopped, turned to look at her. His beautiful Daphne who had always brought such joy to his life, had been his mainstay many times. Her great beauty was still there, appeared to some people to be almost delicate, fragile. Yet he knew that she had a will of iron and a spine of steel. Nothing would ever defeat her. And her stoicism and courage after she had learned of Charlie’s badly damaged legs, and the amputation of one, had been quite remarkable.

  He didn’t actually address her remark, but went on, “The British fought so hard to help the French repel and beat the Germans when they invaded France, and Dunkirk was a magnificent evacuation. Thousands of French troops were rescued…” A long sigh escaped him, and he said, “And it’s the French who have disappointed me…” He left his sentence unfinished.

  His words startled her. Daphne exclaimed, “My God, don’t tell me the French have surrendered? We have our troops over there, don’t we?”

  “Yes. The Second British Expeditionary Force went to help again. And, no, they haven’t surrendered. But they have been grousing loudly about us, saying we retreated without telling them, that they went into the fray, that we left French troops behind on the beaches. We did, and some British troops as well. But we certainly didn’t betray them, as they’re suggesting.”

  “It’s the pot calling the kettle black. Hugo told me that a lot of our troops coming off the beaches have been complaining about the way the French soldiers behaved.”

  He laughed quite unexpectedly, and drew her close. “My lovely, practical, down-to-earth daughter. What you’re saying is forget it, Papa. It’s just tit for tat.”

  Daphne joined in his laughter, and slipped her arm through his. “That’s right. We’ve more important things to think about. Charlie, when he comes home, for one. He will need us to be there for him, and I know we will.”

  “The entire family will give him their support, have no fear. And by the way, who is coming here this weekend?”

  “Diedre and William. Cecily. Everyone else is here. Not Alicia. She’s working round the clock, taking a nursing course with the Red Cross, as you know. And some of your grandchildren are away at school.”

  He nodded. A smile flickered in his eyes. “I thought it had been a little quieter lately. With the boys off at Colet Court or Eton. Oh look, darling, at the swans. How beautiful they are, floating on the lake. They mate for life.”

  “I know. Like Hugo and me … we’ve been mates for life, thank goodness.”

  “I second that,” her father said.

  * * *

  Later that day, just before dinner, Daphne went looking for her father. She had received a letter from Charlie in the afternoon post and wanted to share it with him.

  She hurried along the corridor on the bedroom floor and knocked on his dressing room door. Charlotte opened it immediately and brought a finger to her lips.

  Ushering her into the room, she pointed to Charles, who stood near the chest of drawers paying attention to the words the BBC announcer was saying as he listened to the six o’clock news.

  “‘Earlier this evening the German army entered Paris without a shot being fired. General Bogislav von Studnitz headed up the German Eighty-seventh Infantry Division, leading them through mostly deserted streets. Some citizens had stayed behind and were weeping, sorrowful witnesses to this tragic event. Others had fled along with Monsieur Paul Reynaud’s government.’”

  Charles turned the wireless off. Both Charlotte and Daphne had noticed that angry look on his face.

  Charlotte spoke first. “Does this mean the French have surrendered, Charles?”

  “I don’t think so. But they will. I’ve no doubt about that.”

  “So they’ve just run away?” Daphne asked, staring hard at her father. “Will the French now be considered cowards?”

  “Some people may believe that, Daphne. Although I’m saddened, I don’t actually think that personally. There is the probability that the government, as well as many of the Parisians, left in order to save Paris, their beautiful City of Light. By leaving the entire city empty for the Germans to take over, they have more than likely prevented shoot-ups, shelling, and general mayhem, and the destruction of some of the most beautiful buildings in the world.”

  “Do you really and truly believe that, darling?” Charlotte said, sitting down, looking at her husband thoughtfully, having noticed that look of anger earlier. His face was always so expressive.

  There was a long silence before he finally said, “I want to think that … it’s much more preferable than considering any other motive or reason for their sudden flight, their desertion, don’t you think?”

  Charlotte nodded in agreement. “I do. And I think we will know more when we listen to the nine o’clock news later. In the meantime we should go downstairs. I don’t know about you, Daphne, but I would like a cocktail. For once in my life I actually need a drink.”

  * * *

  After dinner, everyone went into the library to listen to the nine o’clock news, and the prime minister’s speech. It had become a ritual, one none of them would ever miss. Hearing that inimitable booming voice with its unique cadences always cheered them up and reinforced their determination to win.

  Not many nights later they gathered together again to hear the prime minister give a very special speech after France had surrendered to the Germans.

  The room was eerily silent as they listened to Winston Churchill’s words. As he was drawing toward the end of the speech, Charles moved closer to the radio, waiting for the last sentences to be spoken. He always found the final words to be the best, the most moving.

  Churchill’s voice deepened as he said, after a slight silence, “What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’”

  Not one person spoke, and several Inghams and Swanns quietly wept, so touched were they by the words of their leader. And their belief and trust in him became deeply embedded in their psyches, and they understood that they would do their all to ensure the victory Churchill believed could be theirs.

  Fifty-two

  Sandbags around the front entrance of the Dorchester, Cecily thought, eyeing them as she walked into the hotel escorted by Hugo. Fancy that. Well, there’s a war on.

  As they walked across the large front hall of the hotel, Hugo exclaimed, “Gosh! What a lot of activity. And I always think everyone in London is hiding in a cellar. How wrong I am.”

  Cecily laughed. She loved Hugo; he was one of the best, and he had always been the one man in the family she relied on, other than Miles. Dear Miles. He hadn’t wanted her to come to London this week because of the war, but he had relented when she had told him her secret. She was three months pregnant, and she had an appointment tomorrow morning with her doctor. “But please don’t tell anyone in the family yet.” He had understood and promised not to breathe a word. But once they were in bed he had held her close. And he had not been able to hide his own excitement and they had talked about it until they fell asleep. They had been trying for a long time to have another baby, after her miscarriage, and she knew he was as relieved as she was that she had conceived. She was now thirty-nine, and this was her last chance. At least that was what she th
ought. Miles reluctantly had agreed she could come up to London because Hugo would be traveling with her. He would also be staying at their house in South Street and they would both travel back to Cavendon for the weekend. Hugo had several important business meetings over the two days.

  There were a lot of people milling around in the hotel’s spacious front hall. Some were standing chatting, others moving toward the famous Grill Room. There were porters and bellboys busy with their duties, and concierges at the desk, handling ringing telephones. Busy the hotel might be but then so was London. Cecily had noticed that several weeks ago when she and Miles had been in the city. It was full of troops, enlisted men and officers, Royal Navy men, and many foreigners. Some chicly dressed, others who looked like refugees.

  But no Royal Air Force pilots. They were up in the sky, fighting the Luftwaffe. The Battle of Britain had begun on July 10, and now it was the twenty-fourth, and they were well into two weeks of dogfights taking place high in the clouds. The Luftwaffe were targeting airfields, aircraft factories, and fighter bases. The central RAF airfields surrounding London had also become targets for enormous assaults. Dornier and Heinkel bombers swept over the airfields, while the fabulous little Spitfires, Britain’s secret weapon, Noel Jollion called it, rose up to shoot them out of the “bright blue yonder,” which was Noel’s favorite phrase these days.

  Sometimes Cecily felt afraid when she was here in London, because of the fighters in the sky. But somehow she managed to keep her fear in check.

  The maître d’ welcomed them warmly at the restaurant entrance, and escorted them to a lovely table in a quiet corner. Hugo told the maître d’ that although they were waiting for guests, he would like to order a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  Once they were comfortably seated, Cecily leaned forward and said, “I’m so glad Daphne has managed to persuade Great-Aunt Gwendolyn to have a small birthday party. There’s no reason for her to invite a hundred people because she’s going to be a hundred in October.”

  Hugo couldn’t help chuckling. “You’re correct, but it wasn’t that easy to get her to agree. She’s still quite a tiger, good old Great-Aunt Gwendolyn. Typical Ingham, of course.”

  “So what did Daphne get it down to in the end?” Cecily asked.

  “About thirty nonfamily members, and all of us. The thing is, I doubt she has thirty friends left. She is very old. When you think about it, most of her friends are dead and gone … and have been for a long time. We, meaning the whole family and the Swanns, have been her entire life for many years now.”

  “I know. But let’s face it, she is still a wonderful character. And our matriarch. I’m glad we’re giving her this party, Hugo. She has so longed for it.”

  “She deserves it.”

  Hugo tasted the wine which had been poured in his flute and nodded. “You can pour us a glass now,” he told the waiter, and looking at Cecily he went on, “She wished to leave her house to me, and was surprised I didn’t want it. And then she asked if I minded if she left it to Diedre instead of one of my children. Naturally I said I didn’t.” For a moment Cecily made no response and Hugo eyed her curiously.

  “Yes, I know about all that,” Cecily finally said.

  “You do?” Hugo looked truly taken aback, and he sat staring at her, a frown knotting his brows.

  Cecily grinned at him. “Actually, she asked me to witness the codicil to her will, and Charlotte too, and we obliged her. She has a soft spot for the Swanns, Hugo, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Everybody’s noticed, and for centuries! The Inghams are besotted with the Swanns, as the saying goes in the family.”

  He touched his glass to hers and said, “And may that lovely custom continue.” After sipping the champagne, Hugo asked, “How’s Harry doing?”

  “Managing quite well, although he misses Paloma terribly. And why wouldn’t he? He’s very much in love with her … most of our men in uniform miss their sweethearts.”

  “But not always their wives,” Hugo shot back, grinning at her. “I’m just joking, Ceci. I know I’d be lost without my darling Daphne.”

  A small silence fell between them as they sipped their glasses of champagne, but after a short while, Hugo said in a low voice, “She died, you know.”

  “Who?” Cecily sounded puzzled, and peered at him.

  “Pauline Mallard.”

  “Hugo, you’re joking! She’s a young woman. Well, maybe not young, but certainly not old.” Cecily shook her head. “Oh dear, I can see you do mean it.”

  “I do. I thought Daphne might have told you.”

  “I wish she had. When did Mrs. Mallard die?”

  “January of this year. I subscribe to the New York Times, and I read her obituary. She had an inoperable brain tumor. That’s what killed her.”

  Cecily opened her mouth to say something and then stopped abruptly. “Oh, here’s Emma coming. With her very good friend, Blackie O’Neill. You’re going to like them so much. And she, in particular, has become a very close friend of mine.”

  Hugo stood up to greet one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had short auburn hair, and the greenest of eyes. Luminous eyes that matched the incredible emerald brooch and earrings she was wearing. What a stunning face, he thought.

  * * *

  The four of them got on well and had an enjoyable lunch together. Hugo was fascinated by Emma Harte, who was not only a beautiful woman, but the smartest he had ever met. No wonder Cecily was so impressed with her, enjoyed doing business with her, and viewed Emma as her hero.

  However, Hugo knew Cecily had made her own career long before she had known Emma. It was not until the late 1920s that they had become involved. Cecily still had clothes boutiques at Harte’s in Knightsbridge, and Emma was her partner in the Cavendon jewelry collection.

  Quite unexpectedly, during their main course of chicken pot pie, Emma looked across the table at him, and said, “My brother, Winston, lost a leg in the Great War, and has worn an artificial one for over twenty years. If your son Charlie needs any help, please let me know. Winston will be happy to come and chat with him.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Harte, that’s so wonderful of you,” Hugo answered. “Actually Charlie might need someone to talk to once he gets home. Someone who is not family member.” He smiled. “He’s very proud and independent.”

  “I understand,” Emma said. “The artificial legs they are making today are far superior to the earlier models. For instance, they bend at the knee, because they’re specially hinged, and also at the ankle. Quite remarkable objects. They are made of a very light material. But your son will have to learn how to wear it properly, use it to his advantage.”

  Blackie said, “When you meet Winston, you’ll think that he’s a man with a stiff leg who limps slightly, and that’s all.”

  “Yes, it’s true,” Cecily said. “I know Winston and he walks very well.”

  “It hasn’t stopped him living a good life,” Emma added.

  Hugo thanked her again, and then looked at Blackie. “Earlier you said the Dorch, as we all call it these days, was the safest hotel in London. Why is that?”

  Blackie beamed at Hugo, happy to speak about his favorite subject—building and construction. He said, “First of all, it’s relatively new, built about 1931. And it is made entirely of reinforced concrete. Then last year, when they sandbagged the front entrance outside, shingles were added to the roof. They are extremely protective. I know the man who built it, Sir Malcolm MacAlpine, and he explained everything to me. I’ve used his ideas in some of my hotels and other buildings.”

  “Very interesting, and a good thing to know,” Hugo remarked, thinking of Cavendon Hall, which still had parts in need of repair. Blackie O’Neill was a good man to know.

  * * *

  “What a fabulous woman Emma Harte is,” Hugo said to Cecily as they walked down South Audley Street after lunch. “But I detect a certain sorrow in her.”

  Cecily glanced at him quickly and nodded. “Yes, you
’re correct, it is there. The man she loved died about a year ago, and she was broken by it for a while. But they have a daughter together, Daisy, and Emma pulled herself together for their child. However, I am certain she’ll never get over Paul McGill’s death. I know that for a certainty.”

  “Oh my God, of course! I remember reading the obituaries. He was a great tycoon, an Australian.”

  “But he lived here in London with Emma.”

  The wail of the air raid sirens cut into her words and Hugo got hold of her hand and said, “Hurry up, Ceci. We must get back to South Street.”

  “Please, please, Hugo. I can’t run. They’re not dropping bombs here. The Luftwaffe are heading to our airfields.” As she spoke she glanced up and shuddered. The blue sky was darkening with hundreds and hundreds of German planes overhead flying in formations.

  She tripped and fell. As she was going down, she twisted her body slightly and fell on her left side. She lay still, filled with fear. The baby. The baby. Dismay and anguish crushed her and she lay there not moving, silent.

  Hugo was bending over her, looking worried, exclaiming, “Cecily, are you all right? Let me help you up.”

  “Give me a minute,” she exclaimed sharply, and then started to take deep breaths.

  Suddenly an ARP warden appeared from nowhere. “Can I help you up, Mrs. Ingham?” he asked, and she realized it was Mr. Clewes, who covered their area.

  Before she could answer she heard the bright and beautiful voice of Alicia exclaiming, “Goodness me, Daddy, let me get to Ceci. I must help her up.” Her niece bent over her, and said, “Just relax, take a moment, and then we’ll get you to your feet. Mr. Clewes will take one arm and I’ll take the other.”

  “Thank you,” Cecily whispered, and shivered violently as the air raid sirens started wailing for the second time. How she dreaded that sound. It was like a death knell.